


31 Haunts for A Wolf-Girl

by goldandbeloved



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Candy, Consensual Incest, Costumes, Domesticity, F/F, F/M, Haunted Houses, Hauntings, Kittenplay, Love, Magic, Multi, Murder, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Other, Petplay, Polyamory, Satanism, Sensuality, Spanking, Threesome, True Love, Witches, Yôkai, futakuchionna, giallo, lesbian bdsm, movies that don't exist but i wish they did, mythology is foreplay, nocanonnoproblem, peacock lamp, westerosi erotic cosplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-23 17:31:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldandbeloved/pseuds/goldandbeloved
Summary: It's Halloween in Wolf-Girl land; spooky smut and kink for all! Prompts are based on Drawloween, a new piece every day till the 31st!





	1. All Of Them Witches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the Drawloween prompt: Witch.

On the upper side of King’s Landing, everything moves at a hush, even the buses seem to whisper. Sansa drags behind her parents, peeking at everything; she wants to see the beautiful shops on Visenya’s Hill where the most noble of nobles—and her, too now!— make elegant purchases, the fancy restaurants where she likes to imagine herself in a sparkling gown ordering a nibble of anything she likes, perhaps later if she were to make a few friends, a wander in front of the Sept of Baelor with a bit of iced milk and honey to sip. Sansa would think it was beautiful, even though she knows everyone says it’s just for tourists, she wants to see the statue of the Maiden where the marble flows around her like real silk and the Mother with her crown of crystal flowers

 _and the Stranger_ she thinks, not sure why.

 

But Sansa’s painfully aware that she’s not there. Instead she’s looking at apartments with her lord father and lady mother. Sansa doesn’t care about square footage or insulation, but she’s interested. This building has marble floors and it smells cool, like the crypt at WInterfell.  
Thinking of Winterfell, Sansa hopes her dress is short enough for King’s Landing, fashionable. (Her mother wouldn’t let her wear boots though she told her everyone in King’s Landing wears them. Sansa looks at Cat Stark’s go-with-everything sensible caramel pumps and finds them dull. The realtor is droning on and Sansa notices the courtesies he’s lavishing upon her lady mother, though maybe that’s so she’ll find a breakfast nook compelling. Sansa leans against a elegantly tiled wall and waits for the realtor to turn the key and make a joke about carrying Lady Stark over the threshold at last.

Sansa leans back, her flaming hair flaring against the tiny, sparkling bits of stone. Looking around, doors everywhere, dark wood, carved lintels like gates into a thousand tiny worlds. There’s a faint scent of something she can’t quite place, then it’s the soft cloud of her father’s cherry pipe tobacco. He kisses Sansa on top of the head distractedly, reminds her to be good for her mother though Sansa always is.

One of the doors down the hallway is open. Sansa’s shoes tap-tap along the floor as she creeps along. Her family is busy and she wants to see a little bit of the real King’s Landing, perhaps something to tell Jeyne about on a postcard with the Red Keep in lurid colours.  
She smells something citrusy, dark with a bit of sweet. Curious. The door’s half open; inside the little entrance to the apartment there’s the corner of a painting. It looks like a Sept, but there are vivid green streaks around it, the star window in the front flaming like an emerald.

Perhaps they’re artists. Artists are usually in Flea Bottom, everyone knows that, but perhaps here…

Another click, click tap, like someone is pacing and angry. Sansa hears a low rumble of words, catches them.

“…if you hadn’t told her we might not be in this mess.” Soft huff and exhale of lavender, spices and something else, not cozy like her father’s pipe, but something else.

Sansa creeps closer. This is much more interesting than the realtor talking about pressed tin ceilings, the heavy-lidded indolent maidens and gargoyles that cover the outside of the dark building.

“You know what Father wants.”

“He wants a great many things, sweetling.” a low, rumbling, honeyed voice that almost purrs even when it sounds like there’s an argument.  
“I can make things so much better.”

A growl. “Not now. We don’t have much time.”

Pace, pace pace and a swirl of gold silk by the door, the person—woman—speaking is now walking all the way down the apartment, back again, Sansa can hear her heels. Perhaps she’s a model.

Sansa catches another swirl of gold out of the corner of her eye, a set of elongated scrollwork pincers holding a cigarette.

“Virgins don’t grow on trees. We had a chance.”

Sansa leans in a bit more, to listen. Then she has an idea.

She slips out the pearl earring in her pierced ear (it used to be Grandmother Tully’s), rolls it along the floor till it hops over the threshold. Sansa’s going to have to chase it-and see a real set of perhaps bohemian, perhaps artist King’s Landing model...nobles.  
In her mind, she rolls over what she will tell Jeyne. Sansa would just die if they have a conversation pit, not a boring rumpus room like in Winterfell. Her earring's bounced right over the lintel and Sansa composes herself. Inside she’s ready to squeal from excitement.

Sansa raises her hand to knock, but the owner’s already there, bright and beautiful as an idol. 

Gold is all Sansa can see; she thinks somewhat childishly of the round globes of glittering sweets that her parents put out at every fancy meal. All Sansa can think of is the rich velvety sweetness underneath the shell, under all that gold. Sansa tries not to stare, but can’t help.  
Radiant.  
She’s wearing a gold caftan, shimmering with thousands of bright threads, embroidered in scarlet at the sleeves and neckline, starts high, but dips low to her breasts, the medallion between scowling its bright mane and fangs, flicker of a ruby eye (and the fabric shines solid, then sheer, real, beautiful curves and Sansa can tell she’s in fashion, she’s not wearing a bra or anything else. Sansa thinks of her mother lacing herself into a girdle in the morning in the hotel and notes that just as she thought, it’s old fashioned. But the woman's hair—long and twisted in ringlets like gold serpents, piles of gold bracelets, gold mesh and garnet earrings that dust her shoulders, lips rouged yet smeared softly red around the edges and her eyes. Vivid, green, almost luminous, set off with a sharp wing of black liner, Sansa hasn’t seen anything or anyone like this before. Certainly not in Winterfell.  
This woman makes her tremble. Want.

The woman holds out her hand, the other idly dangling her smoke.

“This is yours.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Almost like she’s been waiting.

Sansa puts out her hand and the beautiful woman drops the earring into her palm, folding Sansa’s hand over it.  
“You don’t want to lose such a pretty thing.”

There’s a soft rustle behind her and Sansa trembles.

The same sharp cheekbones, emerald eyes, tousled golden hair, a string of rough cut rubies interspersed with tiny golden beads— he’s not wearing a shirt! — Sansa thinks, it’s just like the magazines. He looks her up and down, idly, slowly, the woman mirroring his gaze. Sansa doesn’t have to guess to know that this is what being undressed with eyes is and that she’ll never tell her parents. Shifting her gaze, Sansa tries not to look, her gaze falling on the woman’s pale leg in the slit of the caftan and the soft, yet firm curves of his leather pants. Sansa’s blushing and vainly hopes they don’t think she’s from the sticks or _bridge and tunnel_ which she knows is somehow worse.  
Her eyes light on another picture in the hall, the one by the burning sept. A dark, yet gleaming form, yet with a woman’s legs entwined about it, her hair shines at the ends like stars. Sansa shivers.  
“Jaime. Your manners.”

The man takes Sansa’s hand, brushes his lips against it, like she’s a real lady.

“Jaime Lannister. And my esteemed sister, Cersei Lannister.”

Sansa feels a soft caress on the inside of her wrist, though that could be a stroke of the caftan’s sleeve, shimmering and beautiful like the air around them. It feels like the calm before a storm, something waking inside her, coursing through blood, up through the stones of the building, down to the roots, like she’s rooted, a burning weirwood, white and red. “Ah.” she sighs, her skin flushing and she’s not sure if it’s the fumes of her—Cersei’s —cigarette which she’s sure isn’t tobacco at all, like in the stories or if it’s being in King’s Landing, for a moment, all alone. Anything can happen when a girl comes to the city.

“Perhaps we’ll see you.” Cersei whispers, low and purring. “I have a glass house on the roof. Good for medicines. Treatments. Far better than any doctor.” Jaime chuckles. Cersei reaches into her sleeve, pulls out a thin golden chain, with a lattice work ball on it. It smells sharp and smoky. Cersei laughs to see Sansa’s nose wrinkle and Sansa is happy to put up with the scent.  
“Welcome to The City, sweetling. We couldn’t ask for a lovelier neighbour.”  
“But—“  
Sansa knows these things take forever.  
Jaime touches a finger to her lips as Cersei slips the chain over her neck.

“Tannis root. Good for protection, among other things.”  
Sansa hears footsteps down the hall, her mother’s and father’s and the realtor, faster, like they’re excited. Sansa knows.

The twins—for that’s what they are—lean forward to whisper.  
“Do come visit. We can’t wait to see you. We've been waiting for you.”  
With one breath, before the door closes, before Sansa returns to being a girl with her parents again:

“Welcome to the Bramford. Little dove.”  
There’s a breath of spices, smoke and sulphur that fades as her family approaches, faces alight.  
Sansa doesn’t need them to tell her their new address in King’s Landing.


	2. Pounce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drawloween prompt 2: Black Cat

They’ve been served dinner in the upstairs solar, much more comfortable than the huge hall downstairs. Sansa yawns and rolls onto her back, gently kicking her feet against the air. It’s a comfort right now to not have to speak or guess, just be warm and happy and enjoy the fact that she has a belled collar and ten toes and fingers to stretch. She rubs against a booted ankle and hears a chuckle, feel Ser Jaime’s hand reach down to scratch at her hair, getting the loveliest spot behind her artfully formed black leather ears.  
“This is because Father wouldn’t let us have pets, isn’t it?”  
Sansa doesn’t need to look up to know that her Queen is giving Ser Jaime that look. Exasperated, but with Ser Jaime it’s like she can’t completely hide her smile. He’s the only one honoured with that look.  
Cersei does not dignify his jape with an answer. Sansa wriggles to make the bell on her collar ring.  
“Why, we’ve got our own little red lioness, a wolf-cub and now a kitten. We can’t let Highgarden know, the ladies will be telling you all about the health and habits of their lapdogs.”  
“Our pets are much more satisfactory.” Cersei reaches down, Sansa rubs her face against her hand, inhaling a hint of lavender and spice, with a bit of savory and rosemary from their supper. She’s rewarded with a bite of fowl. A tiny one.  
A little wolf-cub would chew it up and fall asleep. But she’s not one right now.  
Sansa bats at the long, tasseled edge of Cersei’s golden belt, watching it sway in the firelight. Cersei and Ser Jaime are murmuring low, quiet words. It’s almost uncanny to have them so domestic eating supper together with their devoted pet.  
Sansa looks up, her eyes mischevious.  
Cersei’s reaching across her plate and in a graceful arc her sleeve catches a roasted quail, tossing it into the air and off the table. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms swears, stands to try and retrieve it—  
but her kitten’s too quick for that.  
Sansa has scampered off, the quail in her mouth, curled into the blanket on the floor with her prize, trying very hard to use her mouth to tear at its flesh and not giggle. Ser Jaime’s already laughing.  
“You should never have told her that story. Our own little Black Dread!”  
Cersei bites her lip and fails, hiding her laughter in a glass of wine. Sansa will never tire of seeing her eyes merry, bright as a sunlit jungle over the rim of the glass.  
Ser Jaime slaps his knee. Sansa ambles over on all fours, swinging her hips, clutching her quail, lets Ser Jaime take her onto his lap. It’s a delight to chew on good food, be warm and ready to sleep.  
She’s closing her eyes when she feels her Queen’s hand on her head, petting her.  
Given this, there’s nothing left to do but purr.


	3. Appetite.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: Yokai  
> "I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out. Looking, with its hooks, for something to love." -Sylvia Plath, "Elm"
> 
> This yokai=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Futakuchi-onna
> 
> Prose-poem type thing, super artsy.

Cersei sleeps alone at the keep, in the heavy red velvet box of her bed, like a precious jewel.  
In the space between sleep and dreaming, her hair writhes on the air like smoke.  
No one is there to move it.

If she could eat rage, Cersei would be as plump and satisfied as Auntie Genna.  
If she could lick pain off her fingers like honey, her stomach wouldn’t ache and she might be sated.  
Her tongue might be sweet.

In the night, her hair wraps itself in silky vines round her shoulders, wraps round her neck  
While she breathes in the gasps she’d never let them hear in the throne room it wriggles at her fingers.  
Before dawn her head’s swaddled like a babe in gold.

Something’s in her head and she wants to howl and scream.  
She wants to chew at her lips till they bleed.  
A growl from nowhere; a drop of red slides down the back of her neck.  
Her face is smooth as ice.

At the Rock, her bed has curtains of gauze that move with the sea air.  
Her lovers sleep beside her, red and gold.  
In the dream she asks

 _Do you love me?_  
She moves her hair aside as slow, deliberate and filthy as a whore spreading her legs,  
This is the centre of her world.

The other face; rage and fire and tears, jagged teeth for hunting and hunger.  
Still ringed with Lannister gold and heavy braids, this is the other face of your queen  
The destroyer.

 _May I?_  
The little red cub, reaches, brushes her finger against the other face.  
The death grip smile softens with a kiss.Then another. Its twin.

_We love you as you are. Always._  
_If you will.  
_ _We’ll kiss you here too. You are beautiful. Dark and light._

They all sleep. In the dawn.  
Her hair curls around her lovers, holding them safe. And close.  
The other eyes sleep. The other face smiles. Truly. Always.


	4. Day 10: The Waters Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Creature From The Black Lagoon
> 
> (Okay, so there's a lot of _The Shape of Water_ _The Abyss_ and tons of other things and it's really a vignette, but here you go....!)

The Sunset Sea, Research Vessel _Good Queen Alysane_

Here she is at the other end of the world; the fields here aren’t snow, but water, water in hills and valleys and swells and secrets.  
If it’s not frozen it can always change; storm or spray or foam, she finds them all intoxicating and beautiful. The plunge is always loveliest .

Sansa Stark checks her tank, pulls up the zip on her wetsuit.  
(As if there were a greater sign of how different she was, out here in the sunlight instead of doing things in the snow. They love her but they’re confused and Sansa is very sure her mother allows her science in the hopes that she might catch a wealthy physicist or maester. All she wants now is to be far away.

“You’re useless as a winged wolf.” Robb said to her once when he didn’t have an extra person for the team with and little Sansa fell on the ice time after time even though he let her hang on to the goal. He apologized, but it still surfaces now and then. )

But in the water it’s different.

 

Sansa takes a deep breath and rolls back doesn’t even hear the splash. Her arms move like wings as she splashes through a school of brightly coloured tiny fish and in this moment the sea itself is lifting her, bidding her welcome. There’s no more thought of what she isn’t, only what she is.

Sansa checks the face on her watch, moves quickly. Air is precious. She unstraps the sample container from her belt, goes to the outcropping of rock where there’s things scattered. Ancient ones, pre-Conquest. Maybe Early Valyrian and no one’s really looked to see what they traded, how they even got here. Not yet.

Sansa’s partner is further away on the other side of the wreck, both of them connected by voice. For now though, Sansa lets herself be silent, lets herself float for a moment above the wreck, below the waves. Silent and sweet.

There’s a brush against her face. Sansa wouldn’t be surprised if a parrotfish had taken a liking to her as they’ve done, they leave with the flick of a fin once they find she hasn’t got any treats. Sansa looks up into strangeness.

Luminous, bright, cold fire, unearthly—two orbs of wildfire green, wide and lovely. Sansa doesn’t even breathe, stays still. Two more ghostly orbs, then rippling lights, fins like luminescent fans all around her.

 _Do you believe in mermaids? Like grumpkins and snarks?_ An image of Arya rolling her eyes at the dinner table. Long ago.

Sansa had never told Arya though she wished she was the kind of sister you could giggle with, share things you wanted to be true. But she’d bitten her tongue, been a lady.

It’s a revelation. They have webbed hands, fins and ridges and spines all tipped in bioluminesence . Mirroring each other, one front one behind, they examine her. Sansa’s calm, not afraid, though it is eerie. One has thin, fibrous spines that flare around the head, each tipped in its own bead of light, luminous from within, here in the dark of the sea. The mouth is lipless, but regal. Were there a queen of storms and waves and salt, Sansa knows this being would be it, damn anything the Ironborn have to say. Behind her, the twin is nudging a head against Sansas, playful as a porpise or dolphin. Sansa slowly moves a foot to stay afloat and feels another move alongside hers, the Queen watching like they are dancing. Perhaps they are.

It is astounding. Perhaps her fairy tales did help after all, otherwise Sansa would not see herself in an aquatic pavanne, quick, quick slow with dappled beings no one has ever seen before. Others might shriek, but being a lady, Sansa puts out a palm to see what they will do.  
Their claws are huge and Sansa shivers; but soon it’s palm to palm on either side, a swirl of light and fins in the salty, liquid dark. Sansa thinks briefly that this is how all life begins, in salt and darkness and a sudden twinkle of light. In this light, she could be seduced, she could be a strange chimera of a creature herself, she could be a princess of the Sunset Sea.


	5. Day 16: Goblin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First, this has been a very rough few weeks. Anyway, catching up as I can. Thanks for reading.
> 
> Okay, this has no actual goblins but Goblin did the score for Argento's witch /giallo masterpiece, _Suspiria_ , so here come more witchy Lannisters. Yay.
> 
> Not formatted like an actual script. Also, I don't speak Italian so the title and any mistakes are all me and Google Translate.

_Good morning-hell of a party last night.  
Here’s what I’m looking for. How soon can you all turn it around for the soundtrack? _

MUSIC NOTES

for

IL SOSPIRE DEI LEONI

SYNTH lays down heavily, with whispered vocals as the camera pans down a dark, gilded hall. 

There is a girl bending herself into beautiful shapes in silouette against the pale window, a lurid peacock lamp beside her, glowing blue. The azure light makes her red hair almost violet. SANSA goes through all the positions, a plie and finally a gracious backbend that still has something of the gawky girl in it.

Twinkly sounds, whispers on the SOUNDTRACK. Think SANSA’s childhood music box, the one we saw ARYA break before SANSA left for the ballet academy, with a dark, hissing undertone.

Thump of a cane on the floor, loud as a shot, the ferrule of brass coated with gold, ringed with tiny garnets and the GLYPH we saw in the first death scene. SANSA doesn’t notice, looks up, hopeful. At the top of the cane, a hand, manicured in orange-red with pale halfmoons and a citrine pave LIONESS RING with red, firey eyes.

 

CERSEI:  
You’re a beautiful dancer. Though I know your mother couldn’t make it in the company and Lysa….well, you’ve done far better. Better that we dreamed.

Sansa inclines her head to her teacher’s hand. We see CERSEI - a vision of beauty and terror. Red velvet jumpsuit, belted at the waist, her hair’s parted down the centre in waves of gold. She’s got heavy lashes too, lined eyes, heavy earrings that almost look like coins, ancient. As regal as THE QUEEN OF WITCHES in the engraving in Sansa’s fairy tale book from the credits.

CERSEI runs her hand along SANSA’s. 

SANSA looks up, expectant, lips slightly parted, bitten.

(She doesn’t know JEYNE’s already failed the exam, maybe a quick crosscut of her time in the Iron Maiden? Dreamlike.) Her eyes have a violet shimmer, her hair’s extra red, close to vermillion.  
Play up the colour, we want it to match the blood later.)

SYNTH, hissing and whispers on the soundtrack, perhaps with a hint of “Sette Note En Nero.” Can you do that?

CERSEI:  
I think you’re just what we need.

Quick cut to CERSEI’s injured leg, we know it happened from the intro to the school and we’ve already seen ROBERT’s head in its jar near CERSEI’s other potions.

Twinkling music that goes to thudding, slow, maybe a bit of Bryan Ferry?

Thump of the cane again, there’s a dagger of light from the opening door at the end of the hall, a shape coming in prowling. (A hint of “Cat People: Putting Out Fires?”) It’s JAIME whom we’ve already seen shapeshift, he’s got that animal confidence in him, maybe play up the emerald. It’s slow and agonizing, play up SANSA’s heartbeat.)

SANSA stares, we see her fingers flutter at her chest. JAIME is suddenly behind her, his hands on her waist. She sighs and bends, like the MAIDEN in the DANCE OF DEATH painting above CERSEI and JAIME’s bed. Sansa hasn’t seen it. Yet.

JAIME:  
Lean back.

Cut to CERSEI’s sharp smile, the glint of her huge ring, perhaps a drop of blood nearby for the viewer. JAIME’s shirt slips as SANSA leans into his arms as he catches her, pas de deux. SANSA’s face is suddenly against his chest, only we see the GLYPH burned into his skin. (SYNTH flourish.) It's pure sex, SANSA's ecstatic with the dancing, like we've seen before, but deeper.  
Womanly.  
CERSEI smiles, cross-cut with both of them locking eyes, looking above SANSA’s right breast. We know where that mark goes. They see her for the coven for sure.

SANSA’s gasping, shuddering, suddenly, writhing along with the music, raw and erotic. Her motions mimic the WITCHES from the opening scene. CERSEI moves her fingers, like she’s spinning, pulling SANSA forward. (SYNTH, DRUMS, intense, beat, whispers and howling. Can we get some ENOCHIAN in the mix?)

As the music crecendoes, we see Cersei running a finger along SANSA’s collarbone, intercut with JEYNE screaming in the dungeon, the same line appearing on her in a bloody gash though there’s no one there. JAIME leans in, pulls SANSA to him and we hear an awful snap, see JEYNE twitch, flop, go still. 

It’s the END of JEYNE’s time in the coven. 

Perhaps a shot of her on the wall limp, hanging?

High SYNTH, then low. Drops of sweat on SANSA’s face mirroring JEYNE’s bloodied face. SANSA’s blissed. CERSEI and JAIME are both pleased.

CERSEI:  
Well, little dove. Shall we dance?

****

_Can you get me this by tomorrow? And I need the theme for SLAVES OF THE RAT COOK, the Dornish producers won't stop riding my ass._

_Thanks!_


	6. Day 17: Werewolf

The dreams come with a chill. Mist, ice, something else, in the middle of it, like a red ribbon, a tracery, a hidden stream of heat.  
She mumbles and kicks, knocking the embroidered velvet to the floor, her hair a crimson, gathering storm.   
When she wakes, her jaws invariably hurt.   
There’s been a few drops of something on her pillow (like there were that one morning when she tried to burn her sheets but instead got sent to bed with dreamwine and a hot stone wrapped in furs. She thought everyone could smell the copper on her.)  
They’ve been coming more since she’s been in King’s Landing.  
Sansa wakes, gnaws the inside of her cheek. Hungry.  
On the breakfast table, no oats or even lemon cakes.  
Something has been left for her. Sansa is puzzled.  
Rare, luscious chunks of steak. Expensive, fed on the finest Tyrell grains and grasses, still rosy and dripping. There’s no one to watch. Sansa is so hungry she forgets to be a lady, picks them up piece by piece, chews, then a fistful. Sansa falls asleep by the fire, hands rubied knowing just how good greed is.  
In her dreams, she stretches, wriggles her hips.  
Outside the door, Cersei peeks in, running a pink tongue over her suddenly sharper ivory teeth. She doesn’t need to send for Jaime, she knows he’s already on his way, the way she knows what the rise of the full moon and the tickle of golden fur behind her ears means. There are no secrets between them and in the Kingswood tonight with their little red cub, there won’t be any more.  
All kinds of things can happen beneath the bleeding moon.  
 _Run with me darlings, run with me._  
Cersei wonders what shape Sansa will take, watches her sleep as a human for the last time.   
Tonight the wolf will hunt with the lions. She will lie down with the lions. _Yes_  
It's a thought sweeter than the bloody meat.  
Waking, a thought forms in Sansa’s head.  
 _I’m better off here. In King’s Landing, everyone is a beast is within. Everyone._  
There’s a swirl of dream, silky red fur swirled with golden, the perfect incestous, hybrid chimera.  
Sansa thinks before another dream. One more sleep, one more sleep till moonrise.  
In the now-insipid morning, she too, dreams of the chase, her breath coming heavy and faster, forming the words in sleep in chorus with her Queen's whisper:   
_Soon, soon._


End file.
